


A Treacherous Hope (Is Worth Harboring)

by Mirror_ball



Category: Mewgulf, เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV), เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Forbidden Love, M/M, Pining, Prince!Gulf, i actually did some (very selective) research for this what??, knight!mew, please excuse the historical vagueness and/or inaccuracy, some semblance of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirror_ball/pseuds/Mirror_ball
Summary: Knight Mew undertakes the ultimate mission involving Prince Gulf and... things go (somewhat) downhill.ORGulf is a damsel in distress (figuratively) and Mew... a knight in shining armor (quite literally).
Relationships: Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat/Gulf Kanawut Traipipattanapong
Comments: 21
Kudos: 142





	A Treacherous Hope (Is Worth Harboring)

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this piece entirely on:  
> \- the amazing [prince!gulf/knight!mew fanart](https://twitter.com/FriendlyCarat/status/1314713662372884481) by [FriendlyCarat](https://twitter.com/FriendlyCarat)  
> \- Gulf determinedly serving us a prince look  
>   
> 

“Open the gate!”

The pounding of the hooves against the gravel cuts sharply through the crispy air of the night. In Mew’s chest, the pounding is just as loud. In fact, the sound of his heartbeat could easily drown out the tumult of a marching army, or so he thinks.

“Open the gate!” he screams at the top of his lungs. He means to sound authoritative and commanding, but there’s an undeniable quiver to his voice. “Hurry!”

In the pale light of the crescent moon, his well-trained eyes make out two silhouettes of the night guards. The one with a torch in his hand starts gesticulating wildly, signaling for the portcullis to be pulled up. There’s not enough time, Mew dreads, not enough time to turn this predicament around. He rushes his horse nonetheless, arm tightening around a limp body leaning heavily against his chest. They’re not going to make it and it’s going to cost him his head. But it’s not _his_ life he fears for.

“Tell the king!” Mew’s shouting at the guards from afar, thankful that the metal construction that fortifies the entrance to the castle is already rising. The head resting against his shoulder lolls to the side and Mew’s eyes dart worriedly over the sharp lines and smooth curves of the exposed profile, royal features barely discernible in the star-lit darkness. “The prince is badly wounded!”

Galloping through the now open gate, he sees the guard with the torch break into a run to deliver the message. He looks like he has given in to trepidation, if not absolute panic. Mew doesn’t blame him. The arrow sticking out of the prince’s shoulder doesn’t exactly make for the most encouraging view, and neither does the trail of crimson against the grey stone. And besides, it’s not every day that a member of the royal family is verging on the brink of death.

The hooves rumble ominously against the cobblestone as Mew’s speeding through the outer court. The sound will surely pull the servants out of their slumber, light sleepers as they are expected to be. They might get suspicious, some might follow him and start a rumor, which—sadly—is bound to turn out true. But this is all of no significance to him, not now, not when the world is crumbling down around him, everything he’s built from scratch, stone by stone, about to collapse like a house of cards. If the heavens don’t accept his prayers, and the odds aren’t in his favor tonight, the kingdom will no doubt be plunged into crisis, while he succumbs to despair, and shortly evanesce upon a single strike of a blade across his throat, or—alternatively—owing to a noose tightening around it until he can’t draw in another breath.

He suspects he’s either already mad or just about to lose his mind when he chooses to forgo the king’s decision and make his own instead. While all decisions strictly related to the kingdom, and especially those that could lead to a royal’s demise, are obviously to be made by the monarch, right now there’s no time to lose. Because right now, each silent beat of the prince’s heart and each breath that slips in a soft puff of air past his parched lips, brings him closer to eternal darkness.

Mew needs to act fast, and he needs to act smart. What’s the point of waiting for the king’s official orders when he knows exactly what’s in everyone’s best interest? Regardless of the outcome, his fate has already been sealed anyway; now it’s just a matter of dying a hero versus dying a traitor.

His horse whinnies into the chilly night as Mew pulls on the reins, the pounding of the hooves gradually morphing into a gentle clip-clop against the sturdy surface. When his horse eventually comes to a halt, it’s in front of the south-east wing of the castle, where the court physician and Mew’s dear uncle is probably immersed in his soon to be disturbed dreams. With a silent huff of slight exertion and both arms wrapped securely around the prince, Mew maneuvers them both off the horse. For a split second, he thinks he hears the prince let out a grunt of discomfort, but quickly decides it must have been his imagination playing tricks on him; the man in his arms has long been passed out.

It proves challenging for Mew, if not a bit too time-consuming, to tie the horse to the post with just one hand while clamping his other hand hard on the prince’s hip. Mew’s arms are trembling as he picks him up bridal-style and carries him over to the entrance, but it’s not from the effort. As a knight, a merciless warrior well-acquainted with notions of fear and death, he should be way more collected, way more prepared. And yet, with the body so dear to him molding against his chest like it’s boneless and devoid of life, he finds himself teetering on the brink of despair. 

The sound of his ragged breathing echoes off the cold, stone walls as he staggers down the long, familiar corridor. Faint moonlight oozes lazily through the huge windows, showing him the way, and he briefly thinks, in his state of near-delirium, that it’s an absolute waste for a night this lovely to become a bearer of such dreadful news. 

It’s a vigorous knock delivered by his own fist that startles him out of his piteous reverie. He doesn’t need to wait long before a pitter-patter of bare feet against the wooden flooring registers in his ears. Thank God.

“Who dares to rob me of my precious sleep?” A grumpy, muffled voice comes from the inside of the room. The door opens with a woosh, and then, “Dear Lord, Mew, what have you done?” 

***

The thing is, he did nothing. Nothing besides apparently proving to be extremely and utterly incompetent, that is. Nothing besides failing the one mission he knew he couldn’t fail. Nothing besides inadvertently bringing death upon the both of them.

He shudders from head to toe, both from the cold and the horror. His life is not his own anyway; it belongs to the king—always has and always will. Although not for long anymore, he supposes, considering his impending execution. But the life of the young prince, still so fresh and inexperienced, is not something that can simply come to an end. Not like that. Not because of him.

Perching on the edge of the bed, he props his elbows on his thighs and buries his face in his hands. As mad as he is at his uncle for forcing him out of his bedroom, he can’t deny he’s also secretly grateful. Whatever medical procedures the prince needs to undergo, Mew would rather not be there to witness them. His heart already aches for the boy as it is.

Shaken, he pushes against his thighs, leaning backwards until his shoulder blades meet the covers draped over the bed. Sleep, he thinks, what a funny concept. Especially when juxtaposed with… well, eternal sleep. God, why does everything have to revolve around death? Speaking of which. He wonders whose death will come first—the prince’s, due to excessive blood loss and, probably, severe infection, or his own, after the royal guards barge into his room and arrest him for (assumed) treason, general insubordination, and his failure to bring prince Gulf home safe and sound. Then again, why would that even matter? Either way, they are both doomed.

And it’s this thought, in conjunction with the realization that it might be the last occasion for him to spend the night—or what’s left of it—in his own bed, that makes him squeeze his eyes shut and pray for sleep to come and snatch him away. 

And snatch him away it does.

***

Darkness. Cold. Moistness in the air. Wolves howling in the distance. Lingering hope.

And then, finally, a flickering light. The dying embers of a fire. A sound of breathing, ragged and labored, yet somehow—peaceful. 

Relief.

He’s there, curled up next to the source of warmth, brows drawn together in a scowl even in his sleep. Thump-thump, Mew’s heartbeat is too loud, so loud it might wake up the men in cloaks with collar brooches he doesn’t recognize. Thump-thump, his heart goes as he sneaks up on his target, his destination, his sole purpose. “Shhh,” he hisses with a finger pressed to his lips as their gazes meet. The boy’s is idle, distant, absent. No trace of the spark that used to be there not so long ago.

Mew’s fingers are stiff from the cold, slow as he tries to free the boy from the ties that keep him prisoner. “Come,” he eventually whispers right into his ear, determined to be quiet, even if the howling of the wolves would drown out any noise he’d make. He ignores the way his heart breaks to smithereens at a tiny whimper that escapes the boy as he pulls him into his side and guides him over to where his horse is waiting for him, tied to a tree. The boy’s swaying on his feet, barely able to walk, barely able to remain conscious. “Hurts,” a silent, pitiful groan cuts through Mew like the sharpest of blades and he deems the message quite ironic, because so does his soul. 

“Up,” he gestures pointlessly at his horse, the movement of his arm lost in the darkness of the night. And then he has both of his hands under the boy’s arms, hoisting him up until he’s settled in the saddle. 

“Hold onto me” he says as soon as he slides into the saddle behind him, but it’s too late, the boy is out already. Arm tight around him in a protective embrace, Mew gets his horse to move and feels the boy lean back against him heavily as they set out. “Let’s get you home, Your Highness,” he murmurs into the starless night.

***

It’s the same fear, same darkness, but a different night, a different fire—at least the one gleaming in front of them; the figurative one that burns deep within him has, by contrast, remained unchanged for years. Shadow and light take turns to dance over the planes of cheeks so pale. Shallow breaths seem to escape before they even reach the lungs. Danger lurks behind the wrinkled trees, the trees that hum a morbid song of death to the melody dictated by the fickle wind.

Thump-thump, his heartbeat’s still too loud, so loud it can betray him.

His head jerks up at the rustling sound somewhere in the distance. They’re not safe here, they’re an easy target. Even though they spent the whole day speeding through the woods, for all he knows, the kidnappers might have done the same and still be hot on their heels. They shouldn’t be stopping, shouldn’t be taking a break, and, most certainly, shouldn’t be making a fire.

And yet, here they are, relishing the elusive warmth of the flickering flame. If not for the prince’s questionable condition, they would be on their way home now. (Funny how the castle truly feels like home for some. Mew sighs. It’s only ever been a dwelling to him.)

It hurts to look at him. It has for the longest time, he’ll admit that, but tonight the pain is twice as searing. He’s right there, so close, and yet seems farther away than ever. Mew wants to reach down, brush the stray lock of hair off his forehead, run a thumb over his cheekbone, over those pretty, chestnut-shaped lips, now devoid of all color. Claim them. Make them his before some princess destined to be wedded to him does it first.

The prince stirs in his sleep as though he could read Mew’s mind. Would he be disturbed by Mew’s ponderings so obviously indecent? Would he be appalled? 

He wakes up then, or so it seems, half-lidded eyes directed at his savior with an actual intention. “Mew,” he calls his name, like in the good old days, back when the roles they had meant nothing. There’s only so much kids can comprehend, after all.

“Sir Suppasit,” he corrects, because that’s what his title is, that’s what he should be to him. One of his subjects. Hardly a noble. There’s no room for first-name-based camaraderie. Not anymore.

It’s so hard to form a habit, yet so easy to slip out of one, Mew bitterly observes.

“Mew,” the prince insists while corners of his mouth rise in a tiny, rueful smile. “How are you here?”

The prince doesn’t appear hurt, thank God, not beyond a couple of bruises and a few minor scratches along his arms. He is, however, badly dehydrated and alarmingly feverish, which, coupled with extreme exhaustion, has him clearly walking the borderline between consciousness and slumber.

Even so, or perhaps exactly because of it, Mew wants to talk. He wants to tell him how he spent days upon days searching for him everywhere, how he kept finding leads and losing traces. How he almost lost all hope along with them.

Instead, he scoots closer to where the prince is curled up on his thick, woolen coat he spread out for him earlier over the dewy grass, and pulls him gently by the upper arms until his head is leaning against his thigh. 

“Don’t waste your thought on useless things, Your Highness.” He brings his leather bottle to the prince’s lips. “You need to drink now.”

The prince does as he’s told, gulping down the contents in no time at all. “Mew?” he mutters when he’s done, wiping the excess of water from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. He wriggles with a grunt, head ending up nestled in Mew’s lap. “I missed you.”

The pounding of Mew’s heart must be loud enough to lure the wolves out of the woods. He brings his quivering hand to the prince’s forehead just to confirm what he already knows. The prince is burning, probably delirious, no wonder he’s not making sense. Still, to hear those words fall from his lips is like to win a hopeless battle, and he allows himself to savor the blissful feeling right until it’s replaced by one of trepidation. To harbor a hope so treacherous is pure madness, after all.

“Try to get some sleep, we’re leaving at dawn,” he simply replies, going for unaffected but sounding concerned instead. 

The prince huffs but lets his eyelids slide shut nonetheless. It’s not long before his breathing evens out, an occasional quiet groan slipping past his lips every once in a while. Mew realizes what he’s doing only when he has his hand buried in the prince’s hair, fingers weaving lazily through the thick, raven locks. The perspiration stands in beads on the boy’s temples, glistening grimly in the pale light of the dying flame, and his brows plunge back into a frown. So much for finding solace in his dreams.

“Oh, Gulf,” Mew murmurs into the chill of the night, dropping the royal title like he used to when the prince was but a kid. It’s okay, just this once; there are no witnesses around save for the moon. “I don’t even know how I’ve come to treasure you so.”

The wind caresses his cheeks, not indifferent to his words. Gulf, in turn, lets out a gentle snore.

***

The first arrow swooshes right past Mew’s ear. The second one doesn’t miss.

If Gulf wasn’t sitting in front of him, maybe it would have been Mew who got shot. Maybe it would have been _his_ cry of pain cutting through the crisp air of the early afternoon. Maybe it would have been _his_ blood gushing from the fresh wound and seeping through the ripped fabric of his grey, woolen coat in lieu of the prince’s emerald green cloak. Maybe.

But it’s not the time for the could haves and the what ifs; it’s the time for immediate reaction. Which, in this case, boils down to a retreat.

There are no other options, Mew reasons, no other ways to deal with the situation at hand. It’s not like he can afford to dismount the horse and challenge the perpetrators—the men in cloaks with mysterious brooches who managed to catch up with them after all—to a sword fight. A sword is hardly an impressive weapon against a bow and a set of arrows when your opponent is in motion _and_ not within the said sword’s reach.

Gulf’s drawing in quick, shallow breaths, groaning brokenly with every exhale. Fuck, it must hurt, it must hurt so much, and all Mew can do is support Gulf’s weight as he slumps heavily against his chest. He cues his horse to speed up, leaning forwards to shield the prince’s body with his own, and dodges a few more arrows in the process. “Hang in there,” he mumbles into the side of the boy’s hooded head, as though it was up to him whether to carry on or give up. “Please.” 

The desperate plea is bitter on his tongue. He spits with disgust and presses his heels hard into his horse’s sides. “Faster, boy, come on, come on.” Obediently, the horse breaks into a gallop and continues to run until they dive into the forest so dense it barely allows them to see beyond three feet in whatever direction. It’s their chance, Mew hopes, a silent prayer on his lips. If they can’t lose them now, they’re as good as dead.

Looking over his shoulder for what seems like the hundredth time, he finally feels his tight muscles relax but a fraction. Apart from the somewhat stifled rumble of his horse’s hooves against the padding of the moss-coated ground and the prince’s silent grunts, no sound registers in Mew’s ears. They’re safe. Everything’s going to be fine.

It’s this very moment that the prince chooses to bring Mew back to reality. “Mew,” he says, and it comes out strangled, forced.

“I told you, it’s Sir Suppasit, Your Highness.” It’s a measly attempt at a joke, he’ll admit that, but it’s not like he can do any better under the circumstances. 

“Mew,” the prince stubbornly repeats, but he smiles despite the pain. A small victory. And immediately after that, an absolute defeat. “I don’t think I can make it, you know.”

You’ll make it, Mew wants to assure him, you’re going to make it, _goddammit_ , but the truth is, his own heart is filled with doubt right to the very brim. He opts to say nothing to that, instead getting his horse to run even faster. The prince can’t just die like that. Not on his watch.

Except he can. He can and he might, and dear God, he’s going to lose him, he’s going to fucking _lose_ him, even though he’s not—and has never been—his to lose in the first place. 

“It’s time,” the prince’s voice, for the first time since Mew can remember, sounds unwelcome to him. It’s laced with so much resignation and genuine regret Mew can’t help but wince. It’s a goodbye he refuses to acknowledge. 

“No,” he tries to argue. “No, no, you can’t. Just a little more.”

“It’s time,” the voice so dear to him, yet so cursed in this moment, insists. There’s no use arguing, he figures. It’s not up for discussion. “It’s time, Mew.”

***

“It’s time, Mew! Come on, rise and shine!”

He wakes up with a jolt and a gasp on his lips. Re-living the traumatic events of the past few days in his dreams is definitely not his idea of fun.

There’s a hand wrapped around his bicep, effectively shaking his nightmares away. He squints as his eyes try to adjust to the sunshine streaming through a crack between the heavy, dark blue curtains embroidered with a golden thread. The familiar voice finally registers and something clicks in his brain. He blinks up at his visitor, a frown of utter bafflement settling between his brows.

“Mild?”

The lively-looking boy in front of him straightens up with a smirk. “Why, have you been expecting someone else?

Well, that’s a given, isn’t it? Mew was pretty sure he would wake up to either royal guards barging in to arrest him, or his uncle’s very, very bad news. Which, wait a minute—

“Did my uncle send you?” Mew springs to his feet, hands flying up to clutch at Mild’s upper arms. He squeezes, hard. “Did Gulf— Did the prince—”

“He’s not dead, if that’s what you want to know,” Mild reaches up with both hands to tug gently at Mew’s wrists. “Calm down, for heaven’s sake. And breathe.”

As if on cue, Mew exhales shakily. God bless. The prince might be able to live through another day, maybe another night. At least it’ll give the king and queen enough time to properly bid him farewell.

“Are you sure? I told my uncle to let me know if—’

Mild lets out a resigned sigh upon realizing Mew’s grip on him is not going to loosen until the man gets all the information he needs. “Listen. Just because I’m your uncle’s apprentice doesn’t mean I run errands for him, alright? He didn’t send me to you. Plus, you seem to be forgetting what my primary role here is.”

“Court jester by day, future doctor by night, huh?” Mew relaxes a bit, a tiny, if not a little bitter, smile finding its way onto his pale, chapped lips. 

“You need to stop teasing me,” Mild rolls his eyes before he finally wriggles out of Mew’s hold. “I’m versatile like that, what about it?”

Mew raises his arms in surrender. “Full respect there. And I’m sure the king would be overjoyed to hear you’re slacking off in your main job due to some misplaced ambitions.”

“Oh, shut up, like you’re any better,” Mild retorts. “Neglecting your responsibilities as a knight in favor of acting as the prince’s bodyguard. A hopeless one at that.”

The look of absolute torment that instantly overtakes Mew’s features could easily bring one to tears. Mild curses guiltily. “Shit. I’m sorry. That was a low blow.”

“I know even without you blatantly pointing it out how much I screwed up,” Mew says quietly, voice small and defeated. “And I’m going to bear this cross for as long as the king keeps me alive. Which, I assume, is not going to be very long.”

“That depends on your swordsmanship, I would imagine.”

Mew cocks a brow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re being sent to battle effective immediately, or so I’ve heard. Which is why I’m here, by the way. I wanted to give you a heads-up like a good friend I am.” Mild lowers his gaze to the floor and raises his shoulders in a shrug. “The king’s orders.”

***

Mew feels so… heavy. And it’s not just because the 45-pound armor he’s been wearing on and off for the past four weeks is starting to weigh him down to the point of pain. No. The real weight has been that against his chest, pressing down more and more with every single day, every breath he takes, until it finally creates a dent in his flesh, a dent in the shape of a heart, _the_ heart. The one that used to be there before it broke into a million pieces the moment a vicious arrowhead irreparably damaged the smoothness of the prince’s skin and ruthlessly penetrated the body so dear to him.

Even if he tried, Mew would never be able to come up with a punishment as cruel as the one administered by the king. Waking up every single day for the whole month to absolutely no news of the prince’s condition has felt like the most barbarous torture. For all he knows, the prince might be long dead, body cold and stiff and buried in the unwelcoming ground. He might also be, through some divine intervention, alive, and though it seems like a very unlikely scenario, it was precisely that sliver of hope Mew allowed himself to hold on to that gave him the motivation to open his eyes when night turned to day, and sufficient strength to swing his sword and shed blood of the enemy until his arms went limp and the tear tracks dried. 

Now, though he should be feeling victorious after a sequence of won battles, he’s dragging his feet across the cobblestone with little to no will left to live. The metal of his armor, severely damaged by the countless strikes of swords and spears it defended him against, clanks as he reaches up to pull the helmet off his head. He’s made it, but it hardly matters.

He puts his helmet away and ties his horse to the post, then straightens up with one last sigh and puffs out his chest. It’s high time he faced his demons. Regardless of what the truth turns out to be, at least the suspense will be gone. Or so he tells himself, mainly to force his feet to move again.

It’s funny how nothing seems to have changed around the castle. The servants are still busy taking care of their chores, ladies-in-waiting still walking around the courtyard, gossiping and useless as ever, and horses still neighing in the royal stables. Then why, Mew keeps asking himself, does it seem like the beginning of a completely new era?

He stops the first person that passes him in the courtyard. Hold perhaps a tad too tight around the young servant’s forearm, he looks him straight in the eye.

“Is Prince Kanawut dead?”

There’s desperation so obvious in his voice it makes him wince. But in the young boy’s stare, he only sees confusion.

Before the boy can so much as open his mouth to address Mew’s clearly unexpected question, the man lets his gaze travel from the servant’s face to the sharp arches of the arcade in the distance, where a lean figure stands turned towards him and bathed in the sunlight seeping in through the spaces between the thick columns. His grip around the boy’s arm goes completely slack.

“Never mind,” he gives the servant an upwards nod, gesturing for him to go. The boy wastes no time in scurrying away, obviously intimidated by the hoarseness in Mew’s voice and his shiny, albeit well worn-out, armor.

It’s like Mew’s in a trance when he feels his feet start moving on their own in the direction of the arcade, each step reducing the space between the figure so familiar to him, and his own trembling body. He can’t quite process that the prince is standing there in all his glory, tall and lean and perfect. And alive. 

The black, half-transparent shirt with extra wide sleeves gathered at the cuffs is a stark contrast to the usual white, silk shirts he likes to wear, and somehow, it makes him even more alluring in Mew’s eyes, more sin-worthy. The sunbeams filtering through the arcade columns illuminate the prince’s delicate features and bring out all the deliciously sharp lines and soft curves of his upper body that the semi-translucent fabric doesn’t even try to conceal. And for the love of all things holy, don’t even get Mew started on those heels.

God, he wants nothing more than to gather the prince in his arms and seal those pretty lips with a kiss so passionate it’ll remain engraved in his memory for years. Instead, he allows his legs to yield under the prince’s unrelating stare, and in no time at all, he’s on his left knee, the right one reserved for the ultimate Ruler.

“Your Highness,” he doesn’t dare to look the prince in the eye, choosing to fix his gaze on the ground instead. “I don’t deserve to beg your forgiveness, but please, allow me to express my deepest and most sincere apologies for the turmoil I put you through. I can’t stress enough how happy I am to see that you have recovered.”

And indeed, even if he searched for years, he would never be able to find words big and meaningful enough to describe the concoction of the overwhelming emotions tugging at his heart right now, the absolute exhilaration mixed with utmost relief. And, above all, the fondness, the yearning, the lo—

“Why didn’t you visit?” The prince inquires bluntly, putting a stop to Mew’s silent deliberations. “I asked for you every day.”

Befuddled, Mew folds in on himself, head dropping to his chest. “Your Highness, with all due respect, you probably know that the king ordered me to join the troops stationed near the border with the Lak Na kingdom right after we had made it to the palace. But if I’m honest, even if I had stayed around, I wouldn’t have dared to face you after how I’d let you down.”

“You did let me down indeed,” the prince hums in agreement and Mew feels his heart drop to his stomach. “You didn’t visit once, _and_ you went to battle without so much as a goodbye. You’d think it’s the least one should do out of respect for their prince, and yet…”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, I don’t think I understand—” 

There’s a palm under his chin now, soft and warm and, dare he say, promising. It shifts a little, pushes against Mew’s jaw, gently but with enough pressure to force his head up. And then, just like that, the prince ducks down and claims Mew’s mouth, claims it like he claimed his heart, his soul, his life—a long, long time ago. There’s insistence in the kiss, seeping past those rosy lips, there’s conviction, and there’s perseverance. And oh, just a tiny little hint of tongue.

Both the warmth and the tingle in Mew’s cheeks dissipate far too soon, and he’s left instantly missing the perfect pressure against his lips, the tinge of moistness, the vibration of the prince’s sigh. If only he could crane his neck and chase that mouth, encircle that slender waist with his arms, claim him back. Make him his in all ways there are.

“Thank you for saving my life, _Sir Suppasit_.”

And with that, the prince is straightening up and sashaying away, hips swaying just so and his burgundy cape flapping softly in the autumnal breeze.

Dumbfounded and rather overwhelmed, Mew blinks up, eyes following the prince’s retreating figure. Good God. Someday, he thinks with a jolt to his heart, when he decides that enough time has been wasted, his resolve will snap, and he’ll have that boy pinned up against one of those cold, stone walls. 

Someday.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite tempted to revisit this universe at some point to give my vague sword fight/power play/sexual tension idea an actual form, so if this is something you'd be interested in, let me know!
> 
> I'm [mirror_b_a_l_l](https://twitter.com/mirror_b_a_l_l) on Twitter if you need me!


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